The River of No Return
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: "The only truly healthy life is a life out in the daylight and open air. Whatever is robbed of its freedom withers away and soon dies."


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The River of No Return

~by~

Christine

He is different now. Of course he is; how could he be the same? Poor Christian. Attracted to her in a blind-moth love, too entranced to see the flame behind that bright flash of light. And that's all that it is: a flash. He should have known. We all should have known.

We say that there are no rules, no limitations, no laws. Our bohemian beliefs of Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love are the only things we have. But we don't live by them. Bright birds trapped in a gilded cage, afraid to leave, afraid of the world outside. And now we are afraid of flying to that bright, distant that calls to us because we have seen what happens to those who touch it. What happened when Christian and Satine touched it.

We all, whores and bohemians alike, adored him, not just because of who he is but because he represents. He is our Orpheus, descending to his love in the Underworld, and then losing her at the last moment. Our Icarus, who flew too close to that bright sun and fell down down down. Our romantic little poet who gave us so much joy.

Our voice is now dead. Oh yes, he lives: but he doesn't speak, barely ever leaves his garret. I see him the most because all I have to do is look down the hole in my floor and there he is. Sitting in his filthy room, practically swimming in paper and words. The same words that used to pour unchecked from his lips now stutter and die in his throat. He writes a jumbled mess: I know because I've read the bits he discards as rubbish. I smooth them out, place them in other books to keep them flat. Sometimes, he rips them into little strips of paper and I use those as bookmarks, but I seem to read them more than I read the books they should be marking. A lot of them have the words _no return_ written on them. I wonder what he means by that: what does he want to return to? England? The way thing used to be, when Satine was in his life? The time before Satine? I don't know if I'll ever know for sure.

He never speaks. Bohemians sit listlessly in cafes and bars, dumb and mute because our voice is dead. Once or twice, he suddenly shuffles in, and we all look at him hopefully: has he returned to what he misses? He blinks at us, licks his lips as if to speak. We all lean forward, eager to listen, to hear those honeyed words again. He scratches his cheek, sometimes covered in a ragged beard, other times freshly shaved with little nicks from the razor because he is careless now. He just doesn't care.

We wait and listen. He closes his eyes, turns away, buys a bottle of wine and then leaves. We sit back and dream of returning to what we have lost. Our innocence, our loves. Our old lives.

My old life. I often think about it: the old manor house with its rose gardens, the fields and woods my father used to hunt in. I still have the book he gave me when I was twelve, and the inscription he left.

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Always remember, my son, that the only truly healthy life is a life out in the daylight and open air. Whatever is robbed of its freedom withers away and soon dies. This little book on falconry will teach you to value life out in the free open spaces of Nature. If ever you should become acquainted with the bitter side of life, a horse will be your best friend, and your dog and falcon will stand by you too, all of them loyal companions to help you overcome the injuries you suffer.

I hate falconry. Falcons are such beautiful, proud birds: it seems a terrible sin to me to force such a noble creature to flap around and fetch things for yourself. A blow to my father and his dreams of riding across the fields side by side with his son. Little does he know how much I would have loved to as well. But there is no horse or pony that would be suitable for me, no dog that couldn't crush me, no falcon that wouldn't mistake me for a little field mouse from way up in the sky.

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The only truly healthy life is a life out in the daylight and open air. Maybe that's where I went wrong. I moved away from Nature and all its simple beauty to the north, to a village of sin and its city. I stayed in the darkness and thought it was light, with all the bright bulbs of Zidler's obsession. A bottle of bitter green liquid, not a horse, is my best friend, artists and whores are my constant companions. They are good people and I love them, because they do not judge me as my father did. There are no whispers behind hands, and pointing fingers at my cane. They smiled and welcomed me into their lives, like the prodigal son returning home. But perhaps that was because they have their own deformities, their own abnormalities, only mine is more visible then theirs. I've seen whores stand on street corners, flirting with men and when they think no one is looking, they turn their heads and spit out their blood into the drain. We're all dying, one way or another. Perhaps it is our punishment for leaving Nature and worshipping at the altar of music and dance. 

I think… I think that this is the end. Time for me to go back to the south, back to my mother, Virtue personified. I can't stay here, in the centre of the storm that was so quickly snuffed out. I can't walk down the streets, remembering the parties, the late night discussions, the sound of laughter and song drifting down these now empty, silent, and litter-strewn streets. I can't bear the sight of that blasted elephant in that garden, slowly being eaten away by the weather and time. I can't stay in the broken heart of the Revolution. But most of all, I can't stay in this building, above the tortured writer who drew me closer to him by loving a whore.

I loved him. I think I still do in a way, but part of that love was for the way he loved Satine, his dog-like devotion to her. Sometimes, I would go down to borrow something from Christian in the early morning and they would still be lying in bed, not touching, just gazing at each other. They'd stare and stare, tucked into the quilt so deeply that all I could see of them were their heads. I used to see these little proof's of love everywhere during that summer. Now it is summer again, but I see no proofs of love. I only see Christian, alone in his bed, his fingers still grazing Satine's side of the bed. In his sleep, he sometimes looks confused as he does this, as though he can't work out where she's gone. And then his expression clears: maybe in his dreams she returns.

And yet, despite all this love, my own dog-like affection to him, he's the main reason that I'm leaving. Oh, not because of unrequited love. I have no illusions: his heart belongs to Satine, whether she is alive or dead. Besides, I am used to unrequited love. Of course, I wish that I could have what Christian and Satine had: I would risk the flame just for those few precious moments of light. But I know that it won't be. I hoped once that it would, but now it is too late. No, I am not leaving because he does not love me. I am leaving because I begin to not love him. He frustrates me so: he, who had so much life, who breathed new vigour into the Revolution, broke in the new century for us…. He has given up. He mourns, and grieves and wallows in memories and photos that begin to crack, necklaces that rust, dresses that tear. We've left him room to mourn and get himself back together, but he has no desire to. He wants to linger on forever in this state, this half-life. 

And he traps me here. Someone once called Satine the Siren of the Montmartre because of the way she trapped men with her voice. The title is more fitting to Christian, I think. Why else do we linger here, except in the vain hope that he will write and sing again. And instead we wallow in his grief. Well, I have enough of my own grief without another man's. Sounds harsh? It is. I do not fully mean it, because if I did, I would have left a long time ago. The reason I haven't? I have one wish: to hear him again before I die. But he won't sing again. He won't return from wherever he is now. I know that.

It's raining as I write to my mother. I've been trying to write this letter for many days, but it seems to take up a great deal of energy: I feel so tired, my legs ache so much, that I have to lie down. The rain distracts me, hitting the window with that constant rhythm that slowly begins to drive you mad. It almost sounds like a song. A year ago, it would have prompted me into doing a gay little dance across the room, my partner a bottle. Now I only feel tired and old. I ignore the rhythm and concentrate on my letter. My mother disapproves of bohemianism, and I have to be careful to strip every mention of it and its virtues from my writing. 

I can ignore rain. I can't ignore Christian. It took me a little while to notice that the rain now had an accompaniment, a whispered, haunted voice, sore and rough from neglect. But it's beautiful, the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

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Wail-er-ree. Wail-er-ree.

For a moment I think I'm hearing things, imagining something that I've desired for the longest time. His voice drifts up to me, light as a feather and yet as heavy as iron.

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There is a river

Called the River of No Return

Sometimes it's peaceful

And sometimes wild and free

I get up, and shuffle to the hole. He's sitting by the window, rain hitting the dirty glass in that same consistent rhythm. His face, lined by sadness, seems peaceful and still in a way it hasn't been for months. That quiver of emotion and the glassy eyes are quiet now. I feel a strange burden lift from me as I watch him, and I can love him freely as he sings.

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Love is a traveller

On the River of No Return

Swept on forever to be lost in the stormy sea.

He leans his forehead against the glass, and I know that he sees what I see when I look out these windows at the elephant. The past, the summer in all its bright glittering gold. And Satine.

Oh, and he sees her clearly. As clearly as he sees the photos in the candlelight.

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I can hear the river call me.

The rain sings a chorus with him: even the weather falls a victim to his spell. 

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No return no return no return no return

Wasn't it always sunny when he was happy? Raining when he was without his love?

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I can hear my lover calling me

I glance at the floor directly below me: there's a board, with letter and numbers around it, a glass in its centre and a picture of his Siren. 

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No return no return no return no return

He tries to contact her, tries to find her. Sometimes, somebody joins him and I hate them for it: they are mocking him and his grief. They don't understand, didn't see the two of them alone together. Didn't see their love in the open the way I did.

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I lost my love on the river

And forever my heart will yearn

He looks wistful and I know he's looking at the elephant again, the place that started it all. On the mantelpiece above his fire, there's a tiny model of the Taj Mahal and on the bed a satin cushion he stole from the animal's belly. He needs these tactile things to remind him. The Taj Mahal's sharp edges are becoming rounded from his touch.

He whispers.

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Gone, gone forever 

Down the River of No Return

I stand, suddenly determined to speak to him. His hanging shirts and sheets block the ladder: he uses it as his washing line.

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Wail-er-ree. Wail-er-ree

Just as I leave my room, I hear his voice raise in anger.

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You never return for me.

I run down the stairs and open his door.

"Never," he whispers, unaware of me.

"No," I say. "She doesn't. So why don't you return to her, Christian?" I'm surprised by my harsh voice. I don't really mean it, but at least it gets his attention: his head whips around to look at me, his eyes like open windows. Well, now that I've started…

"Why don't you find her, Christian? No need for the Ouija board…" He glances swiftly towards his bathroom and then back at me. His gaze hold mine for a moment, and then that emotion is back, his eyes are glassy again. He looks back outside the window.

"Please, Christian." Damn. I didn't mean to plea. "Please… she'd want you to live. I want you to live." He doesn't respond: he's heard it all so many times before. "The Revolution needs you-"

"The Revolution is dead, Toulouse. You know that." I'm thrown by the sound of his voice. It stuns me, the quiet harshness, and yet… the little hope behind it. He wants me to tell him that the Revolution is alive.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it is dead. But we haven't buried it, Christian. We can't mourn it. And do you know why we haven't buried it?" He doesn't move. I take silence s consent to carry on. "Because we need you to give the eulogy. Satine needs you to give her eulogy."

I leave him to his staring and wishing, hoping that maybe, just maybe my words touched him in the same place his touched me.

*

I am going home. My bags are packed, my paintings waiting for me at the family château. I've said all my goodbyes, but one. I lean against his door, listening. All I can hear is the chatter of Satine's birds outside his window and clinking bottles. I push open the door and see him sitting next to his armchair. He looks at me listlessly and smiles a little wanly.

"Come to say goodbye?" he asks, slurring his words slightly. I nod. He nods. "Satie told me…"

There's an awkward silence and I shuffle nervously.

"Christian…"

"I know what you're going to say," he interrupts. "And I know. I promised her. I will do it… soon."

"You've said that many times." He takes a swig from the bottle at his side.

"True," he says simply. The bird's outside chirp loudly.

"You should let them go," I say suddenly. "Whatever is robbed of its freedom withers away and soon dies." He gives me a strange, pained look. "Goodbye then," I choke out and I run from the room. I'm a coward when it comes to matters of the heart.

*

My carriage doesn't arrive until sunset. The driver wants to stop off in Paris, but I tell him to take me to the first inn outside of the city and we can spend the night there. He grumbles, but obeys: my family name still counts for something.

Just as I'm climbing up into the carriage, I hear someone call my name. I look up and a white object comes flying towards me. I jump to catch it, and realise that it's a piece of paper, folded in such a way that it can glide through the air. I unfold it: one side is typed, the other hand-written. I recognise Christian's neat hand, even though it's obviously been written quickly.

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First page only – took all day! Haven't checked it properly – very rough. Will mail the rest when I'm done. Send your address soon!

I turn over slowly and read the first few lines.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.

The Moulin Rouge.

I know what this is. I look back up to his apartment. The birds are still in their cage, and I can just make out Christian's head peering down at me. He smiles and waves. I wave back, and get in the carriage, clutching the paper and grinning.

"Welcome back, my friend," I whisper and clamber onto the carriage.

Dying is damned hard. But Christian's words soothe me. My own personal lullaby to sail me off on that river, down to the stormy sea.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.

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Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge isn't mine, the song isn't mine. Nothing is mine.

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Song: 'The River of No Return' – Marilyn Monroe

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Author's Note: Toulouse's falconry book and the inside inscription is real, and other quotes (such as "my mother, Virtue personified") are direct from the horses mouth. God bless Matthias Arnold for writing the lovely little book, _Toulouse-Lautrec_, which has helped inspire many plot bunnies.


End file.
